Fifty-two
The gunshot wounds to his leg and arm had been
superficial, the one on his arm hardly more than a bad scratch, the leg
wound other requiring a half dozen stitches. Ordered to take a week off
by the county board of supervisors, Sheriff Gene Packerson had decided
upon three days sick leave. After one sleepless night, he had changed it
to two at the outside.
John Hartman and his son had
disappeared. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath
following Kahl's death, but all hell was bound to break loose at any
moment, and he wanted to on his feet and in uniform when it happened.
During the course of the day, he had tried watching television. He had almost decided upon getting up, dressing,
and heading down town to haunt the substation when he saw a peculiar
pattern of lights flickering on the back bedroom wall.
"Now what in God's name..."
He slipped on a robe and went to the front door.
Outside, possibly every department patrol car in the county crowded the
street with their emergency lights flashing. A murmur of voices was
growing to a gentle roar as his neighbors spilled out onto their lawns to
witness the strange commotion.
He shielded his eyes from the glare of spotlights
thrown upon him.
"What are you men doing out there!"
His deputies jeered and cat-called back at him. Only
when he stepped out onto the porch in mounting anger did he notice the two
slender crystal glasses, an ice-filled canister, and a bottle of champagne
resting on a silver serving platter on the top porch step.
"Well, what the hell," he murmured in complete
amazement.
One by one, the cars whooped their sirens and drove
off. When the darkness and silence closed back in on the neighborhood,
the gathered crowd began to retreat, leaving him alone to an intense rush
of despondency.
They had meant to honor him. They had accomplished
nothing but to accentuate his isolation and loneliness. What had gotten
into them? What was he supposed to do, pour himself a glass of Champagne
and toast his empty house? With one leg stiffened by six painful
stitches, and close to fifty years of having fused a few too many
vertebrae together, he couldn't even bend over to pick up the tray.
Reaching down as far as he could, he at least managed to pluck a card from
the bucket of ice.
ENJOY, it said.
"Shit," he said with a sigh.
"They'd have to be stupid men to be so cruel," a soft
voice said from somewhere in the dark. "You should know your own men
better than that."
The voice startled him, not because it meant that
someone lurked in the shadows, but because it spoke a blatant truth. The
champagne had been one dropped shoe. He hadn't dared hope it would be
followed by the other.
Sheila Davies stepped into the glow cast by the porch
light. She wore a long black trench coat closed at her throat and a
dangerously coy smile.
"Oh, my..."
Sheila collected the tray on the way up the stairs
and backed him relentlessly into the house. Kicking the door shut behind
her with a bare foot, Sheila set the tray on the phone stand by the door.
She eyed the thread-worn robe he was wearing.
"Cute," she said.
"My God, Sheila! You haven't told them who you are!"
She gave a defiant tilt of her chin. "You have the
honor of telling them when I'm gone. You'll enjoy it immensely. Tonight,
I'm your airheaded young dispatcher with an eye for older men. They gave
me a thousand dollars to do this for you. I suggest you donate it to some
senior citizens organization you won’t be needing for a while yet."
CIA Special Agent Sheila Davies let the trench coat
slip from her shoulders and drop to the floor at her feet. Beneath it,
she wore a yellow ribbon draped across her curvaceous body. It read, GET
WELL SOON.
She wore a yellow ribbon and nothing more whatsoever.
He stared somewhere in the region of her midriff,
caught in the unconscious act of scanning her unbelievable body, unable to
breath and too guilt ridden to look her in the eye again. When she drew
so close that he could feel the heat of her and her face filled his field
of vision, he did not have the courage to embrace her. He would die if he
could not, but he dared not. He was too old. He'd only make a fool of
himself and offend her in the process.
"Gene, I'll stand here for the rest of the night. I
swear. I'll catch cold and it'll be all your fault."
"I can't."
She smiled wickedly. "Wanna bet?"
She turned around and looked up at him over one
shoulder. "Let's try some applied psychology. What’s the most innocent
favor a man can offer a woman in the way of touching?"
Gene reached up and put his hands on her bare
shoulders. Gently, he began to knead her soft skin. Backrubs were
innocent. Even his daughters had coaxed him into an occasional backrub.
"Step by innocent step, Gene. Is it working?"
It worked quite well.
